Vatican Pyjameos
by surprisinglyokayismydivision
Summary: John is grumpy, Sherlock is the cure. Basically 1800 words of fluff. (None of the characters are mine... All hail Mofftiss.)


John watched Sherlock as the he exited the flat dramatically, his coat flaring behind him like a cape. He shook his head in amusement, a short puff of laughter escaping his lips as he shrugged his coat on and followed the mad man out of the flat, his feet pounding on the 17 stairs down to the foyer, out the door and onto the pavement where Sherlock was hailing a cab. The black car pulled up to the curb and Sherlock opened the door and slid inside, giving directions to the cabby and frantically typing away at his phone as John pulled the door shut behind him.

John stared out the window, comfortable with the silence, until he realized they were passing into an area unknown to him. He coughed slightly, breaking the silence, and addressed Sherlock. "So, Sherlock, where're we going?" Sherlock paused in his speed texting and looked up at John with an almost annoyed look on his face, piercing gray-green assessing him. "John, must you be so tedious? A crime scene, obviously." John shifted in his seat to be more comfortable, his leg was starting to twinge. "I know that, Sherlock, but why? Wasn't there an experiment you were working on that you said, and I quote, 'Was of utmost importance and could not wait, for anything'?" The cab slowed and stopped and Sherlock slid out, putting his phone in his pocket as he did, leaving John to pay and follow (as always).

"John, do keep up, the experiments can always wait for a case. Especially a good serial murder. This appears to be a 10 and things could finally be getting exciting!" The detective walked under the police tape and started bustling around the crime scene, a flurry of expensive coat, intellect, and energy. He crouched next to the body and opened up his magnifying lens.

The crime scene was the stuff of nightmares. It was a parking lot in which the body of a naked young woman, about 20 years of age with the word "can" carved into her thigh, lay. Her abdomen had a giant hole cut in the middle, with all of the organs that were supposed to be inside the abdomen scattered around the lot. It looked as if she had been gutted like a fish. Her blood pooled around her body, soaking into her dirty blond hair as her eyes stared at nothing.

Lestrade wandered up to John. "Sorry about the text, mate. I know it was your day off. The thing is though, this is the 5th victim and we aren't any closer to catching the right bastard that did this than when we found the first victim." John shook his head in dismissal or Lestrade's worries, "It's fine, I didn't have anything planned anyway. God knows that I haven't been able keep any plans of my own since I moved in with him." John looked over at the consulting detective, now examining the woman's organs while simultaneously berating Anderson about his ability to "get a hint" and "actually do his job without being stupid and massively screwing up the evidence". Lestrade coughed and shifted weight uncomfortably at the look of adoration on John's face. "John, do you-" He broke off as Sherlock stormed over, a thunderous look on his face. "Barely even a five, Lestrade. I don't leave the flat for anything but a six, even your average brain should be able to comprehend that because I don't like repeating myself, however I constantly find myself repeating those words. Come, John, we are leaving. I find myself fancying Indian tonight, how about you?" He grabbed John's Jacket-clad upper arm and tugged. John offered Lestrade an apologetic look before turning to go along.

"Hold on!" Lestrade jogged after the pair, "Less than five or not, I still need the answer." Sherlock stopped abruptly and spun, causing John to crash into him. The detective held the doctor's arm to prevent him from falling over and scowled at the DI, "It was her doctor, the doctor was picking victims based on their illnesses, you will find that the victims all had an appointment about a day before their death, and all of them had recently got a prescription for a rash all of the victims had, which the doctor replaced with a sleeping pill, abducted them, carved the words into their skin, and gutted them. Also, all of the victims were maimed by a person who knew human biology. The cuts are precise and avoid damaging the organs, the entire tract of the small intestine was cut out of the body in one go." He paused, catching his breath. "I also believe his message was finished, 'Catch me if you can,'" Sherlock smirked, "How remarkably cliché."

Lestrade whistled, "Impressive… Hang on, how did you get access to the files of the previous murders?" Sherlock shrugged, "Hacked the system. Simple, really. A child could hack in. Scotland Yard should invest in better security. Or at least think of somewhat challenging passwords, it's like getting into John's computer." Sherlock tugged on the arm that he was holding which was attached to a grumpy looking John. The doctor wasn't pleased at the computer analogy because that meant Sherlock was going through his computer, again. John sighed, running a hand through his hair and following Sherlock into the cab that he had miraculously hailed out of nowhere.

By the time they got back to the flat (and after John had payed for the cab) John had had about enough of life for today and his insane boyfriend/flatmate really wasn't helping. His shucked his jacket and shoes at the door and ordered the takeaway, by the end of the meal, which was curry, his mood hadn't improved and he trudged up the stairs to his room. After changing into pajamas (simple sweats and a t-shirt) he sighed and sat on the bed. He fell backwards onto the bed, dramatically flopping his arms out to either side of his body as he stared at the ceiling. He grabbed his pillow and yelled into it, for good measure and to work out the frustration that had been seething in his psyche all day.

The flat was silent for a moment, and John was a tad bit worried. He didn't know what Sherlock was doing, but he had had a lot of energy he needed to blow off after the (exceedingly boring) case. This normally resulted in loud violin music or sex. Since John wasn't currently engaged, or really in the mood, the lack of noise was slightly, no, extremely disturbing. He was about to remove the pillow when he heard someone thumping up his stairs (two at a time, John noted distantly) throw open his door and sending it crashing against the wall. Then he heard a yell of "VATICAN PYJAMEOS" and with a leap, the intruder had tackled John, who had begun to sit up, and pinned him against the bed under his weight. John had unfortunately opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on and ended up with a mouthful of black curls as his partner sprawled across him.

John spat the curls out of his mouth and looked at the black hair that belonged to a certain consulting detective that was currently splayed across his flatmate in a dramatic fashion, with his blue robe spread around him. "Sherlock, why are you on top of me?" John asked, trying to avoid suffocating in the detective's hair. Sherlock shifted so he was straddling his flatmate's stomach. He waggled his eyebrows as a grin full of childlike glee stretched across his face, "You seemed upset, I wanted to make it better." The grin abruptly disappeared, replaced by a worried expression. "I didn't make it worse, did I?" John ruffled the unruly curls on Sherlock's head before replying, "'Course you didn't, I'm not upset with you." John gave Sherlock a cheeky grin. "Much."

"Good then," Sherlock smiled mischievously, then raised his hands, wiggling his fingers. "I don't suppose you're ticklish, John? I'm conducting a study on the average ticklishness of army doctors named John Hamish Watson, would you like to take part?" John twisted his body, suddenly frantic at dislodging the weight of Sherlock on his stomach, "No, I am not, I would not like to participate, thank you very much. Now I have to go, erm, brush my teeth, could you please let me up?" John pleaded with Sherlock, only making the tall man's grin stretch wider. "You already brushed your teeth John, you're lying to me." Sherlock slowly moved his fingers towards John and the army doctor shrieked in a very unmanly way as his efforts to get out from under Sherlock doubled. The detective, however, was inching his fingers closer to John's stomach every second, and, determining that his weight was secure and that John was unable to slip out from under him, swept his hands upward, towards John's face, and firmly grasped both of his wrists in one long-fingered hand and pinned them to the bed. "No, Sherlock, please. I'm begging you, please." Sherlock hooked the index finger of his free hand under John's T-shirt and wiggled his eyebrows again, this time suggestively, as he looked at John through his eyelashes. "I think we should start with the sides, how about you John, what do you think?" John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's attempt at an "evil face". "I think you look ridiculous, and you really need to get off me, now." Sherlock inched the shirt upwards, exposing John's stomach, and John wiggled again.

Once the shirt was clear of the doctor's stomach, Sherlock let go and dug his fingers John's side, tickling him as he violently tried to curve away from Sherlock's fingers, to no avail. "Please, please, please Sherlock." John breathlessly begged his captor, who was now grinning like the cheshire cat, to stop, which the detective completely ignored. "Sto**oooop**!" Halfway through the word, John shrieked as the detective dug his fingers into a sweet spot on his side, causing the doctor to arch his back upward as his voice rose in pitch dramatically.

Sherlock paused in his tickling for a moment to push a curly lock back that had fallen into his face. Panting he grinned at John, then let out a startled whoosh of air as John violently twisted his body and managed to end up on top of Sherlock, who had a surprised look on his face. John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock in a challenge. The consulting detective glared defiantly back, chin raised, all elegant neck, cheekbones and prismacolor eyes, "You can't affect me. I'm not ticklish and, in any case, the body's just transport."

John grinned and dug his finger into Sherlock's side, causing him to squeal and push at his tormentor's chest. "Mercy! I fold! John, stop!" The begging apparently had some affect on John, who stopped tickling the man underneath him and bent down. He kissed the corner of the detective's mouth, whispering, "I think it's time for that post-case sex you deserve."


End file.
